A chiabh bhuidhe ’n a caoir m’a cheann,
’Taomadh mu ghnùis àluinn an fhir,
’S e ’tarruing a shleagh o ’chùl.
Teich-sa, shàr cheannard nan long,
Teich o’n t-sonn ’s e ’tighinn a nall,
Mar ghaillinn o ghleann nan sruth.”
It is difficult to give an English rendering of the above passage that would convey the elegance and force of the original. The admirer of Gaelic poetry cannot but regret that the English reader cannot peruse the Gaelic version, assured, as he feels, that his doing so would raise considerably his estimate of the Gaelic muse. There is not, perhaps, in any language a richer piece of poetical description than the above. Macpherson’s English version of it is as follows:—
“The car, the car of battle comes, like the flame of death; the rapid car of Cuchullin, the noble son of Semo. It bends behind like a wave near a rock; like the golden mist of the heath. Its sides are embossed with stones, and sparkle like the sea round the boat of night. Of polished yew is its beam, and its seat of the smoothest bone. The sides are replenished with spears; and the bottom is the footstool of heroes. Before the right side of the car is seen the snorting horse, the high-maned, broad-breasted, proud, high-leaping, strong steed of the hill. Loud and resounding is his hoof; the spreading of his mane above is like that stream of smoke on the heath. Bright are the sides of the steed, and his name is Sulin-sifadda. Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting horse; the thin-maned, high-headed, strong-hoofed, fleet, bounding son of the hill; his name is Dusronnal among the stormy sons of the sword. A thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits shine in a wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright-studded with gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds—the steeds that, like wreaths of mist, fly over the streamy vales. The wildness of deer is in their course, the strength of the eagle descending on her prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter on the sides of the snow-headed Gormal.
“Within the car is seen the chief, the strong, stormy son of the sword; the hero’s name is Cuchullin, son of Semo, king of shells. His red check is like my polished yew. The look of his blue rolling eye is wide beneath the dark arch of his brow. His hair flies from his head like a flame, as, bending forward, he wields the spear. Fly, king of ocean, fly; he comes like a storm along the streamy vale.”
The Gaelic scholar will at once observe that the above is a free but a fair translation of the original Gaelic, and the character of the translation is such as to give no idea of imposition. It is just such a translation as a man of poetic temperament and talent would give of the passage.